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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2120457
Rated: E · Non-fiction · Nature · #2120457
A place from my childhood
I have been coming to this very spot for fifty-one years now. My father and I built a camp on a small piece of property overlooking a tiny lake. The lake is no larger than a football field and motorboats are not allowed on it. It is twenty feet deep and spring fed which means on the hottest days of the year the water temperature doesn't exceed sixty-five degrees and to me, there is no better way to cool off.

The lake is surrounded by tall pine, oak, and birch trees.
On a calm day, you can understand how this lake got its name.
The reflection of all that is near is in its own perfect image.

As the old birch tree arches over the water with it's large pea green leaves dangling just above the surface, one wonders if there isn't another birch under the surface to continue this heart shaped illusion.

A big bullfrog, with marble-like eyes peering up at me, does he have a monstrous head or is he lying belly to belly with another giant bullfrog?

A wet, muddy, grassy aroma fills the air of Mother natures marshland leads me to believe that it has rained within the last twenty-four hours. With his long blue, gray body, enormous wingspan, long pointed beak and gangly legs a mud crane flys almost effortlessly above me. With the grace of an eagle and the look of something prehistoric, his reflection is that of a huge ocean stingray moving swiftly below the surface of the water.

Bushes that engulf our property, are filled with grape size berries. A deep, dark, frosted blue protecting its innermost sweetness has tantalized me enough to make blueberry pancakes the order for tomorrow's breakfast.

It has been a humid day, while the sun begins to set, it's burnt orange radiance, dances brilliantly off the lake giving the appearance of millions of diamonds shimmering in the water. The deeper the sun sets Mirror Lake succumbs to a low-lying, almost mystical cloud, that hovers at its waters level. A whippoorwill announces its presence by repeating its name over and over again, while the evening air cools down to a slight chill, and fills my nostrils with the nutty fragrance of the oak trees.

On another lake further down there's a cottage called the Santa Maria, built many years ago by monks. This is the exact replica of the ship that once sailed with the Nina and the Pinta, complete with mast, gangplank, portholes, captains deck, and ship's wheel. It sounds its foghorn every night and morning at nine o'clock. With a fog like this, one can't help but think that this cottage must look like a ghost ship in search of its fleet.

Mirror Lake is only an hours drive from the home I was raised, but it was just far enough to say that you were getting away for a while.

The temperature is about ten degrees cooler and with these surroundings, you can't help but relax every nerve in your body.

Early to bed and late to rise is the number one rule around here. In fact, it's the only rule.

© Copyright 2017 Buster Givens (busterg at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2120457